


Requiem

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Friendship, Post-Hogwarts, The Quidditch Pitch: Leaving Feast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-12
Updated: 2007-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-26 13:11:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10787382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Molly gives up on Percy and has to face what this means for her as a parent.





	Requiem

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

**Requiem**

The edges of the blanket are badly frayed, one corner torn where he liked to bite when he cut new teeth. She quietly passes a thumb over a patch where the color has faded unevenly from being left too close to a window for so many years. The weave is loose in the middle, partly due to age, partly due to inexperience when she knit it so long ago.

She folds the blanket in half and then in half again, and rolls it to make a tight bundle. In a moment of weakness she lifts it to her face and rubs it against her cheek. The soft yarn has grown coarse through a thousand washes but it still feels like velvet against her aged skin. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply; she swears she can still smell the evenroot lotion she used to rub on his skin when he was barely a month old.

The blanket is placed in her great grandfather’s old trunk, alongside a toy dragon with several missing scales, a pewter cauldron with a squeaky handle, an old set of dress robes, and his first pair of glasses. She clicks the latch shut and moves it to the far corner of the room where a tower of boxes filled with old clothes, old books, and possibly a hundred feet of yellowed parchment is stacked from floor to ceiling. Molly keeps finding bunches of scrolls hidden around the house-- behind bookshelves and in the back of closets, under the bed and in dresser drawers -- and swears he must have kept every report he ever wrote while at Hogwarts. 

The framed commendations for high marks and such that used to adorn the walls of the parlor have been taken down. The only reminder that they ever existed at all is a border of faded patches that line the room, a reminder that is wiped away with one swipe of a wand. Now, these once cherished certificates are neatly stacked next to his old bed, which has been stripped bare for the first time since he left. 

Package after package is prepared: his favorite drinking glass, his prefect badge, his old wand, the cage in which they brought his owl home. All the bits and pieces of his childhood, all the relics of his youth, all the artifacts parents collect in the veritable museum they build for their children, are packed away, sealed, labeled, and ready for delivery.

For Molly Weasley this marks the end of a battle she has fought for six years, one that she must finally admit she lost.

From the first moment she learned she would bear a child, Molly took the title, ‘Mother’, and she wore it like a badge of honour, of pride and privilege. It would be her life’s work to nurture and teach and feed and clothe and protect and mend and discipline and defend and foster and shelter and shield and instruct and everything else that was part of a mother’s duty, of a mother’s love. Anything less than everything was failure; it was failure to her calling, failure to her child, failure to her family, and failure to everything she was, or tried to be. It was simply unacceptable.

But failure came. Despite a thousand sleepless nights spent by their bedsides, through illness and injury. Despite the tears she’s shed, the hands she’s held. Despite a lifetime of sacrifice and care. Despite her best efforts, failure came. And this singular failure tore at her heart, and pricked it until she bled and bled, and she nearly bled to death. 

It sits like a yoke, bearing down on her shoulders. It wraps around her throat. She failed Arthur. She failed Percy. She failed at the one thing she treasured above all else. And the badge of honour has become one of shame, and the pride gives way to pain and an ache that will haunt her for rest of her life. And when the room is too quiet nothing will drown out the doubts, the niggling questions that echo in her ears and prick her heart just a little bit more. Maybe she should have listened more. Maybe she should have shouted less. Did she dote too much? Too little? Did she hug too tightly or not enough? Did they not know how much she loved them? Did they simply not care? 

Those questions will forever remain unanswered and Molly will wonder why and who and what for the rest of her life. She will wait for her other children to turn away one by one. Each time they leave her home she will wonder if they will ever bother to come back. She will get a knot in her stomach every time they forget to call when they’ve promised. She will bite her tongue if there is a chance her words will be misunderstood. Molly will fear that her grandchildren will resent her kisses on their foreheads or a hug given too tightly. She will spend a lifetime second-guessing every move she makes towards her family. Molly will never know what she did wrong but she will admit all responsibility. It is the price of her failure and she will accept it as her penance.

But, in the end, Percy failed her as well. He walked away and never looked back. There was no recognition of the sacrifices she and Arthur made, no appreciation for what they gave their children. Percy saw a table full of mismatched plates and not the meals she prepared day after day. He saw the patched up clothes and not the cramped fingers that stayed up all night stitching and mending. Percy saw only the cracks in the walls, not the love within them. 

For years she made excuses for his behavior, tried to soften his harsh words, absorbed his venom so that the others wouldn’t have to, so that others wouldn’t know. But the truth is Percy gave up on her long before she gave up on him. There were no words of regret for a father who was on the verge of death in a hospital bed one Christmas. No words of comfort to a brother whose face was shredded and forever scarred. No well wishes at three weddings that have passed. Children born who didn’t even know he existed. There was no acknowledgment at all, nothing but the stony silence of a man with no family. With no name. He walked away and never looked back. All the while Molly could never look away.

There is always an empty seat at her table for which a plate is always set and an empty bed with crisp sheets and extra blankets left in pristine condition. Always extra stew kept warm and his favorite desserts waiting, uneaten, on the kitchen counter. As is her duty there is always a place to call home. Always a mother’s love. 

Molly is left with a bed untouched, and food uneaten, and a hollowness in her stomach ever present. 

With every memento she packs away, Molly remembers. Each memory brings pain anew and fresh doubts and, sadly, more assurances that she is doing the right thing.

The day came when there were no more tears to be shed, when she lost the strength to hope, when the sky emptied of stars upon which to make a wish. Molly realized that her son would not come home. Would never come home. Without wanting to, she began to accept his choice, for whatever else happened, whatever circumstances abound, it was a choice. It began years before, when Fleur had come to visit for the first time. Fleur, with her nose in the air and her snide remarks. Fleur, who had the audacity to sit at the empty seat and eat the extra food that was not meant for her, that was not meant for anyone. Molly hated her for that because she had no right. She didn’t belong in this house, wasn’t part of the family. She was an interloper, a trespasser, and she had no right.

It was unfair, really. The girl never knew why she faced cold eyes and terse lips every time they sat down to a meal. She never understood why she wasn’t welcome in the home of what was to become her kin. She never understand that it had little to do with her or Bill, but with a wayward son who couldn’t find his way home. 

But that poor child proved herself to be more of a Weasley then Percy ever was. She was loyal and faithful and proud to bear the name. Without ever needing to claim it that seat became hers, without needing to ask it is now _her_ favorite dessert that sits on the kitchen counter.

Molly’s family had changed and grown. The vestiges of childhood gave way to a new maturity as her children had children of their own. The world went on. Life continued. And Molly knew, knew in her pierced, broken heart that she could bear it no longer. Percy had made a choice and she would have to as well.

The sun is setting, and the pain in Molly’s back is too much to bear. Her legs ache and her hands are tight and swollen at the knuckles. She’s been at this for hours, scouring the house for any and all traces of his possessions, packaging all his belongings and returning them to their owner, hoping to get it done before Arthur comes home that night. Finally, when no trace remains of her third son, Molly falls back into the faded armchair closest to the hearth, numb to the bone and oddly chilled. Her fingers are particularly cold and she balls them into fists and holds them close to her body. The fire flares in the grate and she leans forward letting the warmth touch her skin.

As she conjures herself a cup of hot tea and sweet cream, she thinks of her child: the infant with the long graceful fingers, the bright curious eyes, the tiny toes that curled and uncurled when he fed. He was born six weeks early, so eager to get out into the world on his own, full of ambition before he took his first breath. Percy never cried. No matter how wet or tired he was, no matter how hungry or thirsty he may have been. Even then, as small as he was, he was proud. Too proud.

Beside her, in her great grandmother’s wicker basket, sits a rainbow of balled yarn and a half-finished jumper. She wonders briefly if she can turn the P into an R and salvage hours of work, but thinks better of it. Instead she pulls on the threading along the edge and slowly picks it apart. Line by line, it unravels and disappears, until all that remains of her work is a pile of loose wool.

Molly considers what to do with the remains. A scarf for George perhaps, he seems to catch colds so quickly lately. A hat for Ron or mittens for Ginny; there has been talk of a harsh winter. She reaches for the pile of discarded yarn but stops and pulls back before her fingers touch the material again. A picture flashes before her, of chubby fingers and solemn eyes, and without really thinking about it, she reaches for her wand and, with a quick tap, lifts the loose thread and rolls it into a tight ball. Once secure she places it in the last of the opened boxes and before she can change her mind, she seals it inside. With one final tap of her wand she moves the box to where the others sit waiting to be picked up. It is the last thing she can do for her child. One last gift. One that he wants above all else: a fresh start. For once Molly can give him exactly what he wants, what he feels he deserves.

She picks up a ball of soft blue yarn that she found in a local shop a week or so ago. It is hand spun, no machine or magic, and of the finest quality she has ever worked with. It will make the loveliest shawl for Fleur, the color perfectly accentuates her eyes. Perhaps she will make a blanket for the new baby, it will be here in a few months, after all, and it is taking her longer to get her projects done these days.

Molly thinks of Ron’s new son, and the twins’ booming business and all the new employees they recently had to hire. She thinks of the trip to the Mediterranean she and Arthur are going to take, it will be the honeymoon they never had. She thinks of Ginny and Harry and Remus and Minerva and on and on and on.

Outside the window a heavy rain falls and Molly smiles softly. For longer than she can remember, she has felt nothing but sorrow and fear. There was little room for anything else, little time. Guilt followed, as guilt has a tendency to do. Then anger, to which all roads seem to lead. But soon there was nothing left to feel; nothing left but a quiet relief. A deep breath. A soft sigh.

There will always be that part of her that hopes for a time when her family can be whole again, but she allows it to linger in the back of her mind because there is no room for it anywhere else. She must do the one thing all mothers dread, the one thing they all hope they will never have to do. Molly lets go of her third son. She wishes him all the fortune he wants, and all the notoriety he feels he deserves. She prays for his health and his happiness and his future. And with one final kiss blown into the wind, a kiss she hopes dearly will find its way to his cheek, Molly says goodbye.

_Finis_

 


End file.
